


Catfishing for Dummies

by andquitefrankly



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Online Dating, Awkward Jack Zimmermann, Check Please Big Bang 2016, Kindergarten Teacher Bitty, M/M, NHL Player Jack Zimmermann, Southern Belle Eric Bittle, nursey lardo and bitty are bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8448853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andquitefrankly/pseuds/andquitefrankly
Summary: Eric Bittle hadn't planned on signing up for online dating. It was just something that had happened after a drunken night with his friends. He also hadn't planned on messaging the super obvious catfish masquerading as Jack Zimmermann. And he definitely hadn't planned on possibly falling in love with him.Or, Jack is not a catfish, just a lonely hockey player looking for love, and Bitty is just the right guy to warm his cold, Canadian heart.A/N: fic has been fixed! can now read the entire 12k, no problems!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!! fixed the problems, so you should be able to read the entire fic. I broke it into 2 chapters, so if you had read this fic when it was only 1 ch, I highly suggest rereading the first chapter b/c it does not cut off at the same place.   
> Awesome sauce! Thanks for being patient with me guys. 'Preciate it. You're all wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to finally be posting this fic! I don't have much to say other than I hope you enjoy it!  
> A huge shout out and thank you to Forest of Whatever for doing the art. It's GORGEOUS. I'M SERIOUS. DIE AT ITS BEAUTY.  
> Also, major thank you to tutselutse who, honestly, helped me out these past months when I was struggling with the story, characterizations, beta, THE TITLE, and just being amazing and lovely and I adore you, so here's that check please fic I told you I was going to write you and then I didn't b/c I am the worst. :D

Eric blamed it on drunken escapades. Drunkscapades.

If he hadn’t been completely shit-faced drunk, he _never_ would have agreed to sign up for a dating site. It was one of those things that sounded completely reasonable when he was drunk out of his mind, but only increased the pain come hangover time.

And it was currently hangover time.

Eric groaned under his pillow, his phone vibrating with notifications beside him but he was too weak to turn it off, or even throw it across the room. He was never going to drink again. He swore on his MooMaw’s 5-county award winning pie.

He managed to fall back to sleep, only to awake two hours later, mouth tacky and head throbbing. His phone was dead on the floor – Eric was definitely counting _that_ as a win – pushed off after some naptime wriggling.

He trudged to the kitchen, just barely stepping over the lump that was Lardo lying in his hallway. This was the last time he agreed to go bar hopping with her. Eric was pretty sure he saw her drink an entire bottle of rum last night. Or was that Nursey?

God, he didn’t even remember anything after that.

That was it. He was too old to be drinking and partying all night. He was an adult. A responsible adult that would henceforth spend his Friday nights baking and coming up with cute projects to do with his kindergartners.

He swallowed down some Advil, leaving the bottle on the counter for Lardo and Nursey, whenever they deigned themselves worthy to join the land of the living.

“Coffee,” Nursey croaked, curly hair fluffed into a giant poof, making give me motions with his hands at the coffeemaker.

Bless his soul.

“I hope you feel like hell,” Eric said, slamming a coffee cup on the table, taking great joy in the way Nursey whimpered. “Drinking like a bunch of frat boys.”

“Worth it,” Nursey murmured, downing his coffee like a dying man.

Lardo popped her head into the kitchen, eyeliner smeared and clothes wrinkled. “Guess who _did_ get the mustache guy’s number,” she exclaimed, looking far too awake for someone who should be suffering like the rest of them.

She slowly raised her hands until her thumbs were pointing at herself, a goofy grin on her face. “God, I want to sit on that face.”

Eric frowned, trying to get _that_ image out of his head as Nursey and Lardo high fived. He needed new friends. Better friends. Less alcohol prone friends.

“You get any replies yet?” Nurse asked, setting his coffee cup down, looking less like a zombie.

“Dude, you’ve got to wait like, two days before you cash in on a phone number,” Lardo scoffed. “I’m not desperate.”

Nursey rolled his eyes, focusing in on Eric. “On your profile, Bitty,” he said.

“What?”

And then it hit him. He _had_ done that thing. That thing he told himself he would never do. That thing he swore he would never do because, to quote a dear friend of his, he wasn’t desperate.

Lardo’s eyes lit up as Nursey smirked beside her. They were horrible traitors.

“Where’s your phone?” she asked, rushing out of the kitchen, much to Eric’s dismay. Maybe they had just talked about it. Maybe they had ignored him about how hard it was to find a boyfriend. Maybe… maybe… maybe he could stop living in denial and accept his fate.

Lardo returned to the kitchen, holding the phone in the air. “I need a charger, stat!”

* * *

They had spent the rest of the day cackling at all of the messages in Eric’s inbox. Some of these guys were perverts, to put it mildly. Eric had never seen so many dick pics in all his life.

“That. Is rank,” Nursey had said, and how true it was.

Old men, young men, tall men, short men, men of all types swarmed Eric’s profile, openly soliciting him for sex. If he wanted something as fleeting as sex, he would just hang out at his favorite gay bar. He had never had a problem finding a partner for an evening.

It was the more long-term relationship that had Eric quaking in his boots.

Dick pics and salacious messages abundant, the three of them agreed that perhaps online dating wasn’t the way to go. At the very least, Eric had, and once he made up his mind he was hard pressed to change it.

He didn’t care if the person was crazy attractive, rode horses in a rodeo, or was a movie star. He was going to delete the app, his account, and mark any and all future emails from the dating site as spam.

“Okay, but,” Lardo said that evening, sitting on the couch with Eric’s laptop on the coffee table. “Now hear me out, what if he was a super-hot professional hockey player.” She turned the computer towards Eric who was fighting with a very stubborn bag of gummy bears.

“Holy shit, that’s Jack Zimmermann,” Nursey guffawed, staring at what appeared to be the dating profile of Providence’s golden boy.

Eric took a good look at the picture, heart beating faster as he took in the sight of Jack wearing a Canadian flag tank and red sunglasses perched atop his messy hair. He didn’t remember ever seeing this photo of Jack before (yes he was a fan of the man, sue him), but lordy, that half smile and those blue eyes were doing things to him.

“This has got to be the worst catfish in the world,” Lardo said, putting the computer in her lap and reading aloud.

“Name: Jack L. Zimmermann. 29 years old, interested in women and men – Seriously? Wants a serious relationship – good luck finding it here. Career: _Hockey._ That’s it. Just hockey. He literally wrote hockey. What a dweeb.”

Eric sat down next Lardo, hoping to read the profile with minimal commentary.

_Name:  Jack L. Zimmermann_

_Age: 29_

_Height: 6’ 1_

_Career: Hockey_

_Interested in: Women, Men_

_Wants: A relationship_

_Location: Providence, RI_

_Interests: Photography, History, Ken Burns’ documentaries, running, dad jokes_

_About Me:_

_Hi. I’m Jack. I play hockey._

_I grew up on Montreal, currently living in Providence. Have a very busy schedule, doesn’t leave much time to figure out relationships, but I’m willing to try._

_Looking for someone who will like me for me, watch documentaries with, help me figure out what tweeter is all about. I’m really just a normal guy. I put my hockey pants on one leg at a time like everyone else._

_So if you like hockey and history, I guess we can see where we can go from there._

* * *

Lardo and Nursey exchanged a look as Eric finished reading.  “Send him a dick pic,” Lardo said with a grin.

* * *

It had been Shitty’s idea, because all of the bad ideas in his life could be blamed on Shitty.

He had just been so… convincing. Join a dating site! Meet people! Find true love! It had seemed plausible, it made sense, it was so easy. How could Jack possibly say no?

From late September to mid-April (or even June – they all wanted to still be playing in June), Jack lived and breathed hockey. There was nothing like the feeling of clean ice under his skates, the weight of his pads on his shoulders, the hard shell of his mouth guard against his tongue.

His life had revolved around hockey since the day he was born.

But.

But it got tiring. Carrying this mantle on his shoulders. _Bad Bob’s Wiz Kid! Hockey Genius! Prodigal Son!_ It was so taxing, so heavy.

Sometimes he needed to get away from it all, and sometimes, he wished he had someone by his side when it all got a little too much.

It’d be so nice to come home to someone. Someone who loved him and cared for him and understood that hockey was probably the most important thing in his life, but they were the most important person in his life. To have someone to ground him when his anxiety shot through the roof, to hold his hand when he couldn’t handle it anymore, to smile at him when he was down, to tell him he played a good game, even when he lost.

So it hadn’t been too hard to convince him. It had been frighteningly easy.

Only – only it was hard to seriously have a dating profile. First off, the website kept deleting it. Shitty got so upset that he had called the company, threatened to sue them, and then had to convince them that yes, this was the _real_ Jack Zimmermann. And once that issue had been taken care of, in came the weirdos.

Jack had never seen so many different penises or breasts in his entire life. Faceless strangers that felt it justifiable to strip naked and pose just for him.

A slew of dick pics entered his inbox, nestled between photos of ladies above and below the waist, all accompanied with awkward messages of salacious things they wanted to do to his… “hockey stick.”

It honestly made him want to give up on the entire endeavor. He’d probably have better luck throwing a squash out the window and hitting the pope.

He was halfway through deleting his profile, an ice pack held to his jaw, when his phone beeped with a notification from the app.

_Eric R. Bittle sent you a message!_

Please no dicks, please no dicks, Jack repeated to himself as he unlocked his phone, putting down the ice pack for a moment. This was it. This message was going to be the say all, be all. If it was another inappropriate message, a sexy picture, someone yelling at him for being a fake, he was going to throw in the towel.

There was no way it was going to be anything but. He really should just delete the app, delete his account, and pretend that this sad part of his life never happened.

He could practically hear Shitty’s voice in his head right now, telling him not to be a quitter.

He held the phone up and glared at the little envelope open in the app. He could do this.

Jack closed his eyes as he tapped the envelope. It was now or never.

* * *

_Subject: Hello! :)_

_Hi! I’m Eric Bittle. (You can probably see that can’t you?) I just wanted to say hi. So… HI! I just – sorry, um… I don’t know how to say this without sounding weird?? But?? Is your jaw okay?? How’s the concussion? I know it’s not good having a concussion so I’m not expecting you to say, “JUST DANDY THANKS!” but just want to make sure you’re alright._

_I watched the game last night against the Sabres (and now they aren’t much of a team, if you catch my meaning, I honestly don’t know what is happening up in Buffalo, but bless them) and I still can’t believe Deslauriers went after you like he did._

_I was half afraid he broke your jaw, and really that’d be a right pity, seeing as we’re nearing the post-season and the Falconers are fighting for that wild card. Definitely think this is the year!_

_Also, what kind of history you interested in? The other day I was suffering from insomnia something fierce and turned on the History Channel. Isn’t it horrible how much it’s changed. When I was a boy, they certainly had more programs than Pawn Stars. But I caught the tail end of that WWII show and I suppose I wondered if you watched that one._

_You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to. Lord knows I don’t want to bother you. Just hope you’re doing well, and get back in the game soon. Falconers are lost without their Captain!_

_-Eric_

* * *

Eric felt incredibly stupid.

He didn’t have to send Jack Zimmermann a message. It was clearly a fake profile, though he agreed with Nursey that if you were going to catfish, you could at least pretend to be someone else. Use Jack’s photo if you like, but at least be decent about it and pretend to be an accountant or something.

In the end, he didn’t send a dick pic like Lardo suggested, or even a message telling him how dumb he was, like Nursey half tried to do. Instead, he sent his friends away and spent the rest of the day baking an outrageous number of pies that he ended up handing out to his neighbors.

It was highly unlikely that that was actually Jack Zimmermann. Jack could literally have anyone in the world he wanted. He was gorgeous, athletic, smart (everyone knew about his degree in history), charming; he could have any woman in the world. Yet someone was parading around as him, acting as if he was a lonely, awkward, bisexual man.

It was ridiculous!

Eric had pushed aside all thoughts of Jack for most of the week. He had kindergartners to teach, pies to bake, friends to ignore. He didn’t need to be distracted by a fantasy.

He was doing a fabulous job of it too. Until Thursday. When Eric was grading ABC books and watching the Falconers v. Sabres game. Falconers were up two points, third period, Jack had the puck and looked like he was about to make the third point when Deslauriers checked him something fierce, smashing his head into Jack’s helmet.

Jack fell onto the ice, the puck was loose, and the referee didn’t call it. Only Jack wasn’t having none of it.

It was rare for him to fight. He had probably gotten into three fights his entire NHL career, and here he was shouting at the referee who was clearly as blind as a bat if he didn’t call that penalty. Deslauriers, cocky bastard that he was put a reassuring hand on Jack’s shoulder, only for Jack to swat it away, and next thing Eric knew, fists were flying and hysteria abound.

That’s what had set him off.

He felt like such an idiot, falling for such an obvious ploy. It _wasn’t_ Jack Zimmermann. But, at least he got his feelings out there. He said what he thought, he was able to get his worries off of his chest. Maybe start a conversation with a con artist, but hey, no one’s perfect.

He didn’t get a response for two whole days.

Two days.

And then suddenly, there was a little notification on his phone.

_Jack L. Zimmermann sent you a message!_

* * *

_Subject: RE: Hello! :)_

_Hi Eric,_

_My jaw’s just fine, and aside from the minor concussion, coach says I’m good to play next week against the Aces. Can’t say I’m new to concussions, they’re my dear old friends, but it’s not nice just the same.  I appreciate your concern._

_We’re a good team. We play fast, we play hard, we go out there to win, and we try our hardest to deliver results._

_The History Channel has plummeted as far as quality of programming is concerned. Was it WWII in Color? They have plenty of those types of shows. I could recommend you a couple of programs if you’d like. I’m not sure what in particular you’re interested in, but PBS has some really great historical documentaries. If you want. I won’t make you._

_My concentration at Samwell had been American history. I know. It’s funny because I’m Canadian. I get that a lot. I have a particular interest in WWII, so it is in fact very possible I’ve seen the same program as yourself._

_Thanks for messaging me, Eric. It’s really nice to meet you._

_\- Jack_

* * *

_ _

_Name:  Eric R. Bittle_

_Age: 25_

_Height: 5’ 6_

_Career: Teacher_

_Interested in: Men_

_Wants: Unspecified_

_Location: Providence, RI_

_Interests: Baking, Cooking, Ice Skating, Music (BEYONCÉ IS QUEEN), Being Better Than YOU_

_About Me:_

_Hey y’all! The name is Bittle, Eric Bittle. Dear Lord, where to begin? From Georgia, living here in RI. That’s right, I’m a gay little southern boy. We exist!_

_I’m a kindergarten teacher (I adore my little sprouts!), ex-figure skater, obsessive baker, mom friend. I’m just looking for someone to maybe show me around Providence, make some new friends, have a good time. (I am too DRUNK for this.)_

_If you’re interested drop me a message! ;)_

* * *

Jack tried not to fidget as Shitty, Ransom, and Holster all examined the profile picture of one Eric Bittle.

He had shown them the message Eric had sent him, the message he had sent in reply, and his dating profile which was a little lackluster, most likely filled out in a drunken state, if that “too drunk for this” statement was to be taken literally.

He had felt very positive about it all, until the anxiety started to seep in. What if he was trying to lure Jack in? What if he was a catfish?

Maybe he should have just pretended to be Louis O’Neil from North Dakota who happened to share a scary resemblance to a NHL hockey player. How many people in the world followed hockey anyway? And to follow it well enough to be like: don’t you think that looks like Jack Zimmermann?

Impossible.

“Damn,” Holster broke the silence, fixing his glasses. “I want one. Jack let me have him. You don’t want him, right?”

“What!” Ransom exclaimed, shoving Holster away. “Dude, am I not good enough for you?”

“Nope,” Holster replied, popping the ‘P’ with a grin.

Shitty remained quiet as Holster and Ransom wrestled on the living room floor, Jack patiently waiting for his verdict.

He didn’t hold much esteem in Ransom and Holster’s decision. They’d probably sell each other for a really good sandwich.

“Bruh,” Shitty said, leaning forward, handing over Jack’s cell phone, “If I were gay, I would be all over that like salami on a sandwich.”

Ransom giggled, “Cause it’s a sausage.”

“S’wawesome”

* * *

_Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Hello! :)_

_HOW DARE YOU RECOMMEND THE DUST BOWL. I AM IN TEARS._

_I cannot believe I didn’t learn about this in school aside from a tiny blurb. I don’t think I could ever look at sand the same way. Or wind. Not that I can see wind, mind, but you get what I’m getting at. Tragedy upon tragedy, and you genuinely like this! I mean learning, I know you’re not a fan of drought and misery, unless you are, then we’re going to have to end this right here right now._

_Larissa tried to get me drunk last night. Again. You know, just because she’s an art teacher does not mean that she should be getting wasted on a school night. And now I think she might be seeing someone but she’s so tight lipped that I can’t get a word out of her about it. It’s got me so nervous I stress baked five pies._

_If I knew where you lived I’d send you one of them, Sugar. Instead I gave them out to a few of the teachers in school. But none to Larissa or Derek, for thinking that they can keep secrets from me._

_I know that it’s been a couple of weeks, and I love messaging you on here. But. I was thinking. Maybe we could exchange phone numbers? Texting is so much easier and it uses so little of my data. And you already said you don’t have a Twitter or snapchat or Instagram or anything (which is so weird! Then again, I had to teach you all about Beyoncé so I guess fair is fair)._

_Anyways, let me know what you think. I don’t want to pressure you or anything. Messaging on the app is fine. I’d just rather get rid of it, you know. I feel a little silly keeping my profile when I’m not interested in anybody else. ;)_

* * *

It wasn’t dating. Not really.

They had never met face to face. They never discussed anything too personal or tried for anything more intimate.

It was a bit like being penpals, but with a more flirtatious connotation. This was nothing like when Jack had a penpal from Korea when he was 8 years old. This was Bitty – and Eric insisted Jack call him Bitty – blatantly calling him “sugar” and “sweet heart” and “glazed apple strudel.”

This was Bitty sending him messages immediately before a game saying, “I’m rooting for you!” or “You guys got this one in the bag!” or “Score a goal for me, pretty boy.”

It was Bitty messaging him links to funny cat videos, news articles about a new mummy found in Argentina, craft ideas for his kindergartners, pictures of various bakeware that he needed to be convinced _not_ to buy.

It was Bitty watching endless documentaries he never would have considered before, commenting on them, recommending films and music and shows in turn.

It was Bitty turning his whole life upside down and inside out and somehow making Jack feel more human than he’d ever felt before. How could one man, one man he’d never even knew existed in this world, do that to him?

Who was he to deny Eric anything?

“J-Jack?” Chowder stuttered as he held open the door to an Applebee’s.

At least once a month, the Falconers would go out to eat as a team. Jack insisted on it, declaring the need to deepen bonds. The guys liked it because they got to drink as much as they wanted and Jack had to pay.

Applebee’s wasn’t their first choice, but it was Chowder’s pick this month and really, he had a week spot for those Bahama Mama’s.

“Yes,” Jack replied, shoving his phone into his pocket and stepping past Chowder, patting him a little awkwardly on the back. Chris was a good kid. Maybe a bit young, but he was a good goalie. If Snowy ever got injured, he knew that they wouldn’t be at a disadvantage with Chowder in the net.

“You okay?” he asked.

Jack blinked in surprise. Of course he was okay. He was great. He was perfect. He was more than okay. Everything was peachy.

“Sorry,” Chowder exclaimed, covering his mouth with his hands, remembering his inside voice. He uncovered his mouth with a grimace. “I don’t think you’re not okay, it’s just, you’ve been acting a little funny since practice and you’ve been staring at your phone a lot and I don’t know why, obviously, but if you are having a problem or something bad has happened you don’t have to force yourself to be here. Snowy is just going to try and get me drunk anyway.”

“Like it’s hard!” Snowy shouted from the table, earning a hard slap on the back from the rest of the guys.

Jack grinned, ruffling Chowder’s already messy hair. He stared up at Jack in wonderment and Jack worried that he’d never wash his hair ever again. Chowder wasn’t one of those hero worshippers, but he knew that he was pretty high on the rookie’s hero list. “I’m just fine,” Jack reassured him.

He led Chowder to a seat and the monthly team dinner commenced. Chirps abounded, the alcohol flowed freely, and Jack almost forgot about Eric’s request.

Almost.

Until Tater, charming man that he was, asked, “Jack, who is this girlfriend you have been hiding from us?”

Had Jack been drinking, he was sure he would have spit it all in Guy’s face. Instead he very carefully schooled his face and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Thirdy nodded, pointing a casual finger at Jack. “Nah, I think Tater’s right. You’ve been way too happy for someone who isn’t seeing someone on the regular.”

“I’m not seeing anyone,” Jack replied, willing his heart rate to remain normal, rubbing his sweaty hands onto his jeans. He should have known that his teammates would pick up on his strange behavior.

Even Shitty had commented on how much better he looked since he started this – thing, with Eric. It was so easy to let himself relax. And that was it. Eric helped him relax, reassured him that the world wouldn’t fall apart if he wasn’t there to hold the pieces together.

Clearly, his teammates had noticed.

“The phone thing!” Chowder exclaimed, only to cover his mouth quickly, the guys looking at him with a predatory look.

Poots wrapped a friendly arm around his shoulder, pushing his beer into Chowder’s hand. “My sweet baby Chowder, I have the feeling you know something.”

Chowder shook his head. “Nope. Nothing,” he peeped, for which Jack was eternally grateful, but he knew it was only a matter of time – minutes, really – before Chowder cracked. Might as well throw them a bone.

“I will buy you new Sharks sweater,” Tater promised. “Tell us what you know.”

Jack couldn’t do this to Chowder. He looked ready to faint. Jack cleared his throat, effectively silencing his friends. “I’m not seeing anyone,” he repeated, raising a hand to silence them as they began to protest. “But… there might be someone that I am… interested in. In a romantic nature. And it’s good. It’s going good.”

Cheers abounded, several hard slaps on the back were given, and Marty even raised his beer in salute.

A warm feeling settled over Jack, and made a home in his chest. They didn’t push for more information, but they were genuinely happy for him. This is what having a team was all about. To support each other, no matter what.

* * *

“Look, I’m not saying you’re crazy, but you are totally crazy, man,” Lardo said, hanging upside down off of Eric’s couch.

Nursey nodded, biting into a greasy slice of pizza. Ever since Eric vetoed “krunk” weekends (Lardo insisted on the word, as if it was still 2001 – Bitty really needed better friends), they spent less time going out to clubs and more time eating gross takeout and drinking fancy artisan beers at Eric’s place.

Unfortunately, that meant his friends were actually sober enough to question Bitty’s life choices.

“What if he’s a murderer?” Nursey asked, licking the grease off his fingers, a smudge of sauce on his cheek. “I’m not saying he is, but he could be. You can’t trust the internet.”

“I’m not asking to meet him,” Bitty defended, “I feel like if he’s genuinely a nice guy – maybe just a little nervous about this dating thing – then he’d give me his number. I’m not expecting him to actually be Jack Zimmermann.”

“But he thinks that you think that he’s Jack Zimmermann,” Lardo said. “You can’t build a relationship on that, Bits. Just phone sex him and then drop him like a hot potato. That’s what Nursey does.”

“I do,” Nursey agreed.

Bitty groaned, hiding his face in a throw pillow. He shouldn’t have told them. He should have just kept his mouth shut about the whole Jack thing. But he was –

Fake Jack Zimmermann was sweet. He was attentive. He watched too many documentaries and had no taste in music. He was cute. He was real, even if his identity wasn’t.

Eric was falling, and falling fast. It was hard not to. Naturally Eric wanted to know more about him. The real him. If he could slowly move their relationship – and could it be called a relationship? – to the real world, then maybe “Jack” could gain the courage and confidence to be himself.

“We’re just worried,” Lardo said, sitting upright to gently stroke Bitty’s hair. He let out a little whimper.

“We don’t want this guy to hurt you,” Nursey said.

“He won’t,” Eric said, lifting his head. “I know what I’m doing.”


	2. Chapter 2

_5:35 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann _

Hi!! It’s me! :D

_5:35 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

Eric. This is me Eric. Bless my soul idek what I’m doing anymore. :(((  
The 5 year olds have officially murdered me.

_5:41 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Idek? What’s… that?

_5:42 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

Bless you, you poor little hockey man.

_5:44 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Thanks? I take it class was busy.

 _5:44 PM_  
To: Mr. Zimmermann  
HA! i WISH it was busy. more like CRAZY.

_5:45 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

They all know that school’s ending soon.  
They’re all just lying in wait.  
Waiting for me to put my guard down.

_5:46 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

THAT’S WHEN THEY’LL STRIKE.  


_5:58 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Sounds dangerous.

_6:00 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

:o

_6:05 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

Well look at you, sugar.  
And here I thought you didn’t know how to do emoticons.

_6:06 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

I don’t. How did I do that?

_6:06 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

HA HA. you think you’re so cute.

_6:07 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Well my mom seems to think so…

* * *

In all honesty, Jack shouldn’t have been surprised to find Ransom and Holster camped out at his doorstep. After a long, hard practice, all Jack wanted was to take a nice, hot shower and pass out. That was nearly impossible when your best friends lived next door.

“I made a spreadsheet,” Ransom greeted him, holding up his laptop.

Holster nabbed Jack’s keys out of his hand and opened the door, kicking Ransom inside. Jack just sighed, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop them. He was more surprised Shitty wasn’t with them.

“For what?” Jack asked, putting his bag in the closet. He could hear Holster already raiding his fridge. Joke’s on him, he thought.  Jack didn’t have anything snack worthy in there, unless he was up for carrot sticks.

Apparently, he was.

Jack found Holster sitting on the counter with a bag of baby carrots while Ransom had set himself up at the kitchen table. “To calculate the odds of this Eric guy being genuine,” he answered, turning his laptop for Jack.

The numbers and figures all blurred together and Jack could feel a headache blooming.

“Man, I told you he wasn’t interested.”

“This is important! I don’t want Jack to marry an axe murderer; do you know how uncomfortable that would be?”

“Guys,” Jack said, rubbing his temples. “I get it. But I’m tired.”

Ransom and Holster nodded, jumping onto their feet and marching themselves out the door. “I emailed it to you,” Ransom called over his shoulder. “Whenever you have time. Also, he’s all over social media. In case you wanted – Ow! Okay, I get it. Get your elbows out of my face.”

Friends gone, and apartment empty, Jack could breathe again.

He had casually mentioned to them that he and Eric had exchanged phone numbers. He had said it so quietly, so fleetingly, that it was as if they hadn’t heard him at all. There was no confirmation that they’d heard, but today was proof that they had.

And they had decided to be paranoid for him.

It was just as well. If Jack dwelled on it, he probably would throw his phone out the window and lock himself in his room for the rest of the week. It was scary, getting to know someone as intimately as he was with Bitty.

And to do it over the internet, nothing but a profile picture to hint at what he looked like, nothing but texts and emails to give him a voice. He could be fake; he could be trying to get something out of him.

But Jack felt comfortable around him, deleting his dating profile after seeing Eric had deleted his own. He had no need for anyone else, especially now that he had Eric.

He hadn’t been in many relationships – it was hard for him – but with Bitty, it was easy. It was easy to talk to him, to be himself – it was easy to want to try and make it work.

And when Eric wanted more. When he decided that they ought to meet each other, Jack would do that. Because he – he liked Eric. A lot.

And he wanted this… thing, to be something more. Something better. Something worth coming home to.

* * *

_10:15 AM_

_From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Good Morning :D

_10:15 AM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

IT IS NOT >:C

_10:16 AM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

THE OVEN ISN’T WORKING. AGAIN!

_10:19 AM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

That’s terrible. Call the foreman.

_10:19 AM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Wait, do you live in an apt? I just assumed…

_10:20 AM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

I do. And I did.

_10:23 AM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

They’ve promised a new stove since I moved in.  
But it’s been half a year.  
And it breaks down at least once a month.

_10:23 AM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

And they can’t come and fix it right now.  
Because apparently. It isn’t an EMERGENCY.

_10:24 AM_

_To: Mr. Zimmermann_

It is an emergency. A BAKING EMERGENCY.  
ಠ_ರೃ

_10:32 AM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

I think I might know someone who can fix it.  
Let me call him.

_10:35 AM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

No, no. it’s okay. You don’t have to do that.  
I’ll just use Derek’s oven. Or Larissa’s.

_10:39 AM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

I called him. He said he can come over right now.  
Uh... I gave him your number so he’ll just call you.  
Idk how comfortable you are with me knowing where you live.

_10:40 AM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

JACK! YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THAT!

_10:41 AM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

It’s a baking emergency, Bits.  
A BAKING EMERGENCY.

_10:42 AM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

His name’s Dex.

_10:55 AM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

He should be here in ten.  
You’re a lifesaver. ( ˘ ³˘)♥

_11:03 AM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

You’re welcome.

* * *

“You got a weak igniter,” Dex said, as he shut the oven door an hour later, wiping his dirty hands on his worn jeans.

Dex was a young man with a bright head of orange hair and freckles so stark against his pale skin. Nothing like the old, white haired man Eric expected. And while he might have questioned his abilities, he was pleasantly surprised to find he actually knew what he was doing.

It was so strange to meet someone who knew Jack, the real Jack, not the strange configuration he created for the internet. Someone who knew what he looked like, what he sounded like, probably knew where he lived and what kind of car he drove.

It made Jack all the more alive.

He was out there in this city, hiding behind a name, but owning Eric’s heart all the same.

“I replaced it, but really, you need a new stove,” Dex continued. “I can talk to whoever’s in charge of this place.”

“That’d be fantastic,” Eric beamed. “I’ve been telling Mr. Koransky that this stove’s a hunk of junk for months now.”

“Yeah,” Dex said. “Or you can just buy a new one and give him the bill. But I’ll talk to him.”

“Thanks,” Eric said, patting ol’ Betsy on the burner. “How much I owe you?”

Dex blanched, nearly dropping his tool box on Eric’s linoleum floors. “God, I can’t charge you,” he said. “Jack’d kill me.”

So Jack really was his first name. That was fantastic.

Unless he had told Dex to call him Jack. But that seemed like such an offhand remark, it’d be hard to remember the fake name your friend told you to call him. It seemed more likely that that wasn’t a lie. Or Dex could just be a really good liar.

Eric really hoped that wasn’t true.

Either way, he wasn’t going to let Dex leave without some form of payment. “I can’t just not pay you,” Eric argued. “You did more for Betsy than anyone’s done before.”

Dex chuckled, muttering Betsy under his breath. He scratched the back of his head, his tight shirt riding up to reveal a spattering of freckles on his stomach. “It’s on the house,” he insisted. “Technically, I owe Jack a heap ton of favors, so consider it paid in full.”

“So you and Jack are friends?” Eric asked, eager to get some information on Jack.

“As much as you can be friends with him,” Dex stuttered, nerves getting the best of him. Jack probably told him to stay tight lipped about him. Dammit.

“Well, seeing as you’re friends, wait right there,” Eric told him, rushing back into the kitchen and putting a couple of day old cupcakes in a little carry box.

When he returned to the foyer, he was surprised to find Dex had stayed put. He had looked ready to bolt at any second. Eric smiled as he handed over the cupcakes, tapping the side of his nose as he said, “Don’t eat them all at once.”

Dex nodded, stuttering a thank you as he stumbled out of the apartment.

* * *

“These are from him?” Jack asked, holding the little cardboard box like a precious jewel. Inside were half a dozen cupcakes with pink and orange frosting, covered in sugar sprinkles.

To be told about Eric’s baking tendencies was one thing. But to see his creations, to hold it, to smell the sweet aroma, to taste – and Jack wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to eat even one of those heavenly cupcakes – was more than he could handle.

“Yeah,” Dex said, standing a bit uncomfortably in Jack’s kitchen.

When Jack had called him and asked if he could fix his friend’s oven, he didn’t think he’d be meeting the _Significant Other_. To think that Jack trusted him enough to meet him, touched Dex down to his core.

“You can have them,” Dex said.

“He gave them to you,” Jack said, closing the box and sliding it back over to Dex. “Thanks. For. You know.”

“No problem,” Dex answered.

* * *

_7:28 PM_

_From: Eric_

[IMAGE ATTACHED]  
LOOK AT MA NEW STOVE!

_7:29 PM  
From: Eric_

[IMAGE ATTACHED]  
That contour. Those lines.

_7:31 PM  
From: Eric_

I hope it’s not considered cheating.  
But Me and Betsy II are getting married.

_7:31 PM  
From: Eric_

It’s going to be a summer wedding.

_7:32 PM  
From: Eric_

You can be my best man.

_7:38 PM  
To: Eric_

I am honored.

_7:38 PM  
To: Eric_

I take it the foreman finally delivered on the stove.

_7:40 PM  
From: Eric_

Idk what Dex told Mr. Koransky.  
But he came by yesterday saying they were coming today with my new stove.

_7:41 PM  
From: Eric_

I already baked three pies and a cheesecake.

_7:42 PM  
From: Eric_

(ღ˘⌣˘ღ)

_7:42 PM  
From: Eric_

[IMAGE ATTACHED]

_7:55 PM  
To: Eric_

This is the first time I’ve ever been jealous of a stove.

_7:58 PM  
From: Eric_

Get used to it, sweet pea.

_8:00 PM  
From: Eric_

Did Dex share those cupcakes?

_8:00 PM  
To: Eric_

Yes. And no?

_8:01 PM  
From: Eric_

Jack, honey, why are you questioning it?

_8:03 PM  
To: Eric_

Technically he offered me some. But I didn’t eat it.

* * *

Suddenly Jack’s phone rang and he nearly fell off the treadmill. He slammed his hand on the off button and hopped off, answering the phone desperately as Tater looked at him in confusion.

“Yes?” Jack said, shrugging at Tater as he tried to find an unoccupied space in the Falconer’s training room.

“How dare you not eat my cupcakes!”

Jack blinked in surprise, mouth agape, as he connected that southern drawl with that of one Eric Bittle. He checked his caller ID and yes, it was in fact Eric.

Eric called him. Eric was on the phone. Speaking to him. Yelling at him. About his cupcakes.

“Hello? Jack?” Eric asked. “I know you’re there, and I am insulted. Insulted that you didn’t eat a cupcake. Do you think I gave them to him for you _not to?”_

Jack pressed a hand to his chest and looked around the gym where only a handful of his teammates were exercising, practice over at least an hour ago. It was so strange to hear Eric’s voice in this place, a place so disconnected from Bitty’s world.

There were no screaming children, no excess of baked good, nothing but sweaty men on strict diet plans, who spent their days playing hockey. Would Bitty fit into this world? Could he meet Tater or Guy or even Snowy, and make them smile like he made Jack smile?

Would he charm them with stories of his family, of his students, of his baking adventures? Would his teammates chirp him while winking at Jack, telling him not to break Jack’s heart? Could he fit like a glove into the tight unit of WAGs, with this second family of Jack’s?

“You there?” Eric asked, realizing that Jack wasn’t even listening to him.

“Yeah,” Jack managed, sitting on a bench facing the mirrored wall, his smile reflected back at him. “I – I just – I never imagined what your voice sounded like.”

Bitty was quiet, letting out a breathy, “Oh,” in response.

“That was weird,” Jack finally said. “Sorry. It’s good. I promise. I like your voice.”

“Yours ain’t too shabby either,” Eric joked, clearing his throat in embarrassment. “Now I feel sort of dumb, calling you to tell at you.”

“Feel free to yell at me whenever you want,” Jack said.

Eric laughed, and Jack couldn’t breathe. He wanted to hear that laugh for the rest of his life.

“Don’t encourage me,” Eric replied. “I’d do it, too. I’d call at all hours, telling you to eat, to make sure you sleep.”

“My mother might have to file for unemployment.”

He laughed again and Jack’s stomach did somersaults. “I’ll bake you a pie. What’s your favorite?”

“I don’t have one,” Jack said.

Eric gasped, horror in his voice when he said, “You sad little hockey man. I don’t know if I can date someone who’s never had a pie.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Jack asked, the question escaping his mouth before he could think it through. “Dating?”

“I certainly hope so,” Eric replied. “I told my mailman, and lord knows he’s an awful gossip. I’m sure half of Providence knows we’re dating.”

“Good,” Jack said, his heart warming at Eric’s chuckle.

They slowly said their goodbyes and Jack hung up in a daze, looking around the gym as if he had never seen it before. They spoke hardly for ten minutes and Jack felt as if he was soaring above the clouds. How easily he made it to breathe, to think, to just be.

He made his way to the locker room, completely unaware of Tater following him until he said, “That was girlfriend on phone, yes? She seem nice. Next time, let me talk to her. I want to tell her that I make better boyfriend.”

Tater wrapped his arm around Jack’s shoulders, leading him towards the showers.

A small bubble of guilt grew in Jack’s chest. He had to tell the team about Eric. He couldn’t keep quiet about his girlfriend actually being a boyfriend. Not that they were officially anything. But.

They were his teammates. They were the guys he spent 90 percent of his time with. The guys he trusted on and off the ice. It wasn’t fair to lie to them.

* * *

Eric sighed as he led his kindergartners onto the playground, their shouts of joy echoing across the courtyard.

He sat on a bench to watch them, hoping against hope that there’d be no accidents, no tears, no need for his attention for at least a half hour. He needed time to just – sit. Sit and think and not be distracted by anything.

He couldn’t believe he actually called Jack.

He called Jack and he answered and Eric heard his voice and he was funny and sweet and everything Eric knew he’d be.

But he couldn’t continue like this. He couldn’t pretend like he didn’t know that Jack was lying. It would only lead to his heart break, and Eric was already halfway there.

He either had to make a clean break of this whole thing, or make Jack tell the truth.

Would he even want to? Or was he delusional, and actually believed he _was_ Jack Zimmermann, and Eric was just adding fuel to the fire with his hockey related texts. He would end up dating a lunatic.

God, his mother warned him about this.

Well, not _this_ specifically, but… she warned him when he left home: “You never know what type of people you might meet. Some of them could be the nicest, most pleasant folk you ever met, and then you wake up one morning to find them on the 6 o’clock news all because they sacrificed a goat to the moon god. Be careful, Dicky.”

“Mr. Bittle?” Emily asked, looking up at Eric with quizzical eyes.

“What can I do ya for, Miss Emily?” Eric asked.

Emily giggled as most of the children did when Eric added Miss or Mister before their names. They seemed to get a big kick out of it, as if it somehow made them much older than they were.

She held up a dandelion to him, her booted feet shuffling in the woodchips. “I picked you a flower,” she said.

“Thank you,” Eric smiled, putting the flower behind his ear. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” Emily crowed. “So don’t be sad, okay?”

Eric blinked as she ran back to the playground. He put his hands to his face. Was it that obvious? If even his students noticed what a mess he was, then this really was a problem.

What was he going to do?

“So I’ve been thinking.”

Eric turned his head to find Lardo sitting beside him, wearing a paint smeared smock. “Shouldn’t you be in class?” Eric asked.

“Nurse has it under control,” she said. Eric wasn’t too positive about that, but at least he wouldn’t have to witness the aftermath of the disaster. “But like I said. I’ve been thinking. You should meet him. Your fake Jack Zimmermann.”

He really should. That would solve everything. He’d be forced to face the truth, and maybe they could start afresh. Eric could get to know the real Jack, not this act.

And if he refused, well then maybe they weren’t meant to be anyway. There was no point in forcing something that wasn’t there. In forcing something that didn’t have a chance.

Eric really wanted them to have a chance.

“I know,” Eric said.

* * *

_8:15 PM_

_To: Mr. Zimmermann_

hey.

_8:18 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Hey.  
You feeling okay?

_8:19 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

Right as rain.

_8:21 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

Actually.  
I was thinking.

_8:25 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

…what about?

_8:25 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

I was wondering. If. Maybe.  
You wanted.  
To meet.

_8:26 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

In real life. Face to face.

_8:28 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Oh.

_8:29 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

You don’t have to say yes. I was just. Anyways. It doesn’t matter.  
Forget I even said anything.

_8:30 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

No! no.

_8:30 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

I mean yes.  
I mean, no I won’t forget about it.  
Yes. I’d love to meet you.

_8:31 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

Really?

_8:33 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Really. I was thinking about asking you myself.  
But well. You beat me to it.

_8:34 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

How about this Friday?

_8:35 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

I’d love to.

_8:36 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

No. I can’t Friday.  
We play the Rangers.

_8:49 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

Then when.

_8:50 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

The following Monday.  
I’ve got a thing that day. Volunteer type thing.  
It should only be a few hours in the morning.  
We can meet at Annie’s around 4. When you get out of work.  
You know it?

_8:53 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

Yeah. Okay.  
Sounds good.  
I’ll see you then.

* * *

Bitty hadn’t texted him much afterwards.

He wondered if this was it. If Bitty had grown tired of him. He wanted to meet him just to say to his face that whatever they were, was over.

How many people could actually say they broke up with Jack Zimmermann? Would he spread the story all over town, sell it to the local newspaper for a pricey sum? He really could be a catfish like his friends had said.

God, why did he agree to meet him?

He was an idiot!

Jack refused to leave his bed on Sunday, burrowing himself in his quilt and letting his cellphone slowly die with every missed phone call and unread text.

He had dozed off sometime around noon, waking up at the slamming of his bedroom door against the wall.

Shitty stood there in a pair of ragged sweats and a Harvard hoodie, brows furrowed and hands on his hips. “I knew you’d be moping,” he said, jumping on top of Jack.

He wasn’t moping. He was…

Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t moping. That was for sure. He mumbled into his pillow and Shitty rolled over him. “I brought greasy, unhealthy pizza,” Shitty said. “You’re going to eat, and then I’m going to talk you into meeting the man of your dreams.”

He got up and slapped the approximate area of Jack’s perfect ass, saying, “Up and at ‘em, pretty boy.”

Jack knew there was no point in putting up a fight as he crawled out of bed, two days’ worth of stubble scraping against his pillow. His mouth was tacky from sleep and he was covered in a fresh layer of sweat.

He felt utterly disgusting. He was in desperate need of a shower, and a brush of his teeth, but he bypassed the bathroom for the kitchen. If he took any longer, Shitty would most likely carry him to the table, breaking his back in the process.

Best to save everyone by doing what he was told.

“I don’t care if your nutritionist is going to have a field day,” Shitty said as he slid the box of pizza towards Jack. “You are eating. Plus, I asked for veggies. You love veggies. This pizza is practically a vegetable.”

Jack grinned as he took in the swarm of green peppers and mushrooms swimming under bacon and pepperoni. That was one heck of a vegetable.

“You’re scared,” Shitty said once Jack was halfway through his first slice, diving right into the root of the problem.

“I’m not – ” Jack cut himself off, taking a bite of pizza. He wasn’t scared, not in the way Shitty probably imagined. He could meet him. He could!

He wanted nothing more in this world than to meet Eric. He had dreams of them meeting. Of the sun haloing Eric’s golden hair, his brown eyes gazing up at him, his smile wide and genuine.

And then there were the nightmares, where he turned out to be everything but the man he had gotten to know. He was rude, he was vulgar, he was only after his fame and fortune, ready to sell their story for a scoop, for a quick buck.

It was painful to think ill of Bitty. As far as Jack could tell, he didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. And yet.

And yet.

“What if he’s not…,” Jack said, staring forlornly at the table. Shitty sat there patiently, knowing he’d say his part eventually. “What if he’s not everything I’ve built him up to be?”

“Remember that super cool chick I met at that bar a couple of weeks ago?” Shitty asked. Jack nodded. “Right, well like I said, super cool, I was super into her, she was super into me, and then we drunkenly made out in the bathroom. The next day I woke up pretty positive that I would never meet her again and yet somehow, drunk, past me was smart enough to give her my number.”

“You’re saying I’m worrying over nothing,” Jack paraphrased.

“What? No, man,” Shitty said. “I think you have every reason to worry. Worry as much as you want. But. And now listen to me, my gorgeous, Canadian hunk of man: you also have to have faith that everything will work out.”

* * *

He couldn’t sleep.

Eric couldn’t remember the last time he slept. He’d been tied up in knots since last Wednesday, wondering and worrying.

They were meeting today. After school let out. He was finally going to meet Jack. The real Jack.

He’d have to change his name in his contacts.

How would he even recognize him? Chances were Jack didn’t look at all like Jack Zimmermann. He was probably short and lumpy and going pre-maturely bald. He was probably some creepy guy who wanted to steal his identity and sell his organs on the black market.

Why was he doing this?

Bitty drove to school distracted, barely making it to his classroom before the first bell rung. He was a mess. He was a mess and it was all Jack’s fault. He wasn’t even prepared for the morning lesson!

He greeted his students with a bright smile, clapping his hands as he led them to the classroom. He quickly flipped through his lesson plan as the children put their backpacks in their cubbies.

Art project, review alphabet, naptime, lunch, guest visit – Eric paused. Guest visit? He couldn’t remember inviting anyone to talk to his class. Was it through the school? Was there an assembly?

This is why he had to keep his head out of the clouds.

The intercom crackled and Bitty shushed his students for the morning announcements, taking this time to breathe, get his head in the game. He might be meeting Jack later today, but that meant nothing.

He’d just have to bite the bullet by the bootstraps… or… how did that saying go again?

“… slips no later than this Friday. Don’t forget, today is the day the Falconers are coming for a visit. Hope you’re all wearing your Falc gear. Just a reminder to teachers to bring your students to the gym immediately after lunch, where each classroom will be assigned a Falconer and an activity. Happy Friday!”

Oh.

OH.

Bitty suddenly felt faint. The Falconers were coming to his school. Today. In five hours.

That meant Jack Zimmermann was probably coming. The _real_ Jack Zimmermann. Eric was going to have to meet the real Jack Zimmermann and then meet the fake Jack Zimmermann.

Perfect! Just – absolutely brilliant.

“Mr. Bittle,” Adrian asked, twigs caught in his curly hair, hand raised in the air. “I left my homework folder at home.”

Eric mentally chided himself for his unprofessionalism. His kids didn’t care that he was having a crisis, and it certainly wasn’t fair to act as if his personal matters were more important than his students. He would just have to get through this day, that was all.

He put his hands on his hips and wagged a finger at Adrian. “It looks like someone’s doing their homework during free time,” he said, focusing back on the task at hand. He’d worry about the Jack Zimmermann problem when it actually became a problem.

* * *

It hadn’t really occurred to Jack until he was loaded onto the bus with half of his teammates that the elementary school they were going could possibly be the one that Eric taught at.

It was highly improbable. There had to be at least two dozen elementary schools in Providence. More, even. Or not. It wasn’t exactly the biggest town in the world.

He had never asked where Bitty worked, not because he wasn’t interested, but because that seemed like something that should be revealed face to face, over dinner, hands entwined beneath the table. God, he had to get himself together.

It just – It wasn’t possible, at all, Jack told himself. This wasn’t some ridiculous movie. Coincidences like that didn’t happen in real life. He stuck to that belief, up until they were handed a list of teachers and their grade level.

There, right on top, was: Mr. Eric Bittle – K2.

Perfect. Just perfect.

* * *

Eric did a quick head count as his students lined themselves up by the door in pairs. He could not afford to lose anyone, and as distracted as he’d been all day, he knew it was very much possible to accidentally lock some poor six-year-old in the room.

Heaven forbid that’d happen.

All twenty kids accounted for, Eric shuffled them out and led them towards the gymnasium.

He tried to take deep, even breaths. It didn’t matter that he might – might, not certain that he would – meet Jack Zimmermann. What was he going to say if he did meet him? ‘Hi! I’m dating someone who’s pretending to be you, isn’t that so funny?’

He just had to hold his chin up, and focus on his students. Maybe he’d get lucky and their guest would be Mashkov, or Chow. Someone who didn’t have dazzling blue eyes and a perfect jawline.

Eric waved at Nursey and Lardo who stood at the far end of the gym. Figures they’d show up, even if they didn’t have an actual class. They should be spending this time cleaning and organizing the art room, not pointing at the hockey players.

Pointing at one hockey player in particular.

Pointing at one hockey player in particular and making kissy faces.

He really needed better friends.

Eric led his students to the front end of the gym where they sat cross-legged in front of the row of Falconers. Usually Eric loved having his kindergartners right in front during assemblies. It meant he and his students got to see everything.

Now, Eric wished that he could melt into a puddle and slither away. He avoided looking at them, instead fussing over his students who were too busy staring at the men in a state of awe to pay him any mind.

He risked a peek at the hockey players, noting their height and builds, eyes roaming over each one individually, pausing as he came to Jack Zimmermann. He hadn’t meant to – he really hadn’t. But – wow, he was just as handsome in person as he was on television or in magazines.

There was no way Eric would be lucky enough for _his_ Jack to look anything like _this_ Jack.

Jack Zimmermann smiled at him, mouthing a ‘hello’, and Eric yelped, clutching a hand to his chest as he looked away. What.

What?

* * *

Did he do something wrong? What if – what if this wasn’t the same Eric. Or. Or _his_ Eric wasn’t actually Eric at all. He was some guy pretending to be Eric and he was probably writing an article on how easy it is to trick Jack Zimmermann.

It was just a huge trick. A ploy. Just some dastardly person who played with Jack’s heart and – and – and – and –

“Yo, Jack, man, you okay?” Snowy asked, thumping Jack roughly on the back. “Breathe.”

Jack did just that, inhaling deeply and ignoring the sound of shrieking children filling the room. As he exhaled, he tried to clear his head. He had to be at the top of his game. He couldn’t disappoint the kids. He couldn’t do that.

The assembly came to order and Jack still stood there, breathing in and out, eyes closed, trying to focus his mind. Now was not the time to freak out about Bitty. Maybe, he’s just nervous – that is, if it _is_ Eric.

No. He wasn’t going to let his thoughts go there.

He was meeting Eric later. Right now, he had to remember what he came here for. To get these kids pumped about being active. To teach them about teamwork. To give them free Falcs gear and discount tickets to a Falconers game.

Not about his potential boyfriend not really existing.

Now was not the time.

“Zimmboni,” Tater said, reeling Jack out of his head and into the now. Right, right. Focus. Right. “You have that group of tiny children.” Tater pointed to Eric’s – no, Mr. Bittle’s – class. This day could not get any worse, it really couldn’t. “Also, if have chance, get teacher’s phone number for me, da?”

Great.

Jack approached Bittle’s class with a smile. _Game face on, Zimmermann_. _Game face on_.

“Hi, everybody,” Jack greeted. “I’m Jack Zimmermann. You all ready to have some fun?”

“Yes!” the kids chorused, hopping to their feet as Eric tried to calm them down. He clapped his hands and the kids got quiet, looking up at Eric in eager anticipation.

“Everybody get in line, find your partners,” Eric told them, his accent washing over Jack, before turning to Jack and offering his hand. “Eric Bittle. It’s great to meet you.”

This had to be his Eric. He was just like his profile picture – the blonde hair, the brown eyes, that small, upturned nose. His voice had the same musical quality. This was him.

So why. Why was he acting like they were strangers?

“Jack Zimmermann. But I – I said that already. It’s nice to meet you too.”

Eric smiled, and Jack wondered how he had lived his entire life not seeing that smile.

* * *

Eric watched as Jack held onto dear life to Emily’s hand as she dragged him across the field. He should have told Jack that Emily was extremely competitive, but if he had, he wouldn’t have witnessed Jack at the mercy of a group of kindergartners.

They had been placed at the far end of the field, right next to the baseball diamond where the third graders were engaged in a tough baseball game with two Falconers as their coaches.

His class’s game of amoeba tag was almost over and Eric wondered what activity Jack had planned next.

Jack.

Eric wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he introduced himself, except maybe for Jack’s eyes to go wide in surprise and call him Bitty just before kissing him passionately in front of the entire school.

He just had to get through the rest of the school day, that’s all. That was easy, right? He could do that, no problem.

Jack laughed as all the students were caught, all of them jumping atop him, begging to play again.

“Bittle!” Jack called once he was standing, grass stains on his perfectly fitted jeans, dirt on his elbows. “Come join us!”

The kids all cheered, shouting and jumping, a few brave ones coming to Eric and pulling on his arms. “Come on, Mr. B. We’re going to play Simon Says.”

“Yeah, Mr. B,” Jack joined in.

“You better watch yourself, Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric told him, joining his students. “I’m not above putting you in timeout.”

Jack coughed in surprise, eyes near the size of saucers as Bitty hip checked him.

Dear lord in heaven, what was he doing? Was he actually flirting with _Jack Zimmermann_? He had his own Jack to think about. A Jack that he really, really liked, and so who cared if the real Jack Zimmermann was even more handsome in person and had startlingly blue eyes and genuinely liked children? Not Eric.

Nope.

* * *

The children moaned and groaned as Eric tried to get them in line to go back to their classroom, Jack assisting to the best of his abilities.

He had endeared himself completely to the children, and while they still loved Mr. Bittle with their little hearts, Jack, being a special visitor, held more sway over them than Eric. Jack hoped that Eric’s feelings weren’t hurt, though he was pretty sure that he knew Eric well enough to know he wasn’t.

After all, Jack may have played with them all afternoon, but who was the one who brought them mini pies on a weekly basis?

He grinned, slowly following a group of excited fourth graders into the building who were retelling their epic kickball battle, Thirdy clapping him on the back as he walked past.

“Yo, Zimmermann,” someone called, and Jack turned, stunned by the dirty look directed at him by a tiny Asian woman wearing a smock covered in paint. She nodded her head at him and the door opened behind her, revealing a racially ambiguous man with curly hair, glitter fluttering from his curls.

“Yes?” Jack asked. He honestly had no idea what they wanted, though their matching glares gave him just the tiniest of hint. No matter what, he wasn’t going to go into that classroom. Art teachers were notorious troublemakers, and they had no doubt concocted some strange paint/glitter/clay/pastel trap for him.

The man elbowed the woman. She elbowed him back. Jack blinked, not quite sure he understood what was going on. What could they possibly want with him – “You guys are Larissa and Derek, aren’t you?” Jack said.

That had to be them. Eric had mentioned that they were art teachers. If he was wrong, well then he’d die of shame, but he was pretty positive these were them. Had to be.

“Hold the fracking phone,” Larissa blurted, a finger held up at Jack. “How the frick do you know our names?”

“Language, Lards,” Derek muttered, only to be shushed by her.

Jack tilted his head in confusion. “Bits… mentioned them?”

“Holy shit,” Larissa breathed, eyes wide.

Derek covered his face with his hands. “Jack Zimmermann is actually Jack Zimmermann. I can’t believe this.”

“What’s going on?” Jack asked, his only answer a terrifying smile and two pairs of hands pulling him into the art room.

* * *

Eric stared at the rows of empty desks, a sharp pain in his chest needling him as he stalled the inevitable. He knew that he couldn’t date Jack, and he had to tell him. And it wasn’t just because he had met the real Jack Zimmermann.

It was because their relationship had been built on a lie, a lie that Bitty accepted as truth. He had certain expectations, and meeting Jack Zimmermann reminded him that his Jack wouldn’t, and couldn’t, meet them.

He was going to die alone, sad and miserable.

His phone pinged in answer to his moping.

 

_3:48 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Running a little late.

_3:49 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Had a thing at this school. And I can’t get out of the parking lot.

 

Bitty clenched his phone. Liar. What a horrible, terrible liar.

He could feel his blood pressure rising, his head throbbing in a blooming headache. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t meet Jack. Maybe he had held some hope that it really was Jack Zimmermann.

It couldn’t have been though. Jack Z. was nice to him, but there was no familiarity there. There was no moment when he went, “Oh, are you Eric Bittle. My Eric Bittle?”

 

_3:51 PM  
To: Mr. Zimmermann_

I’m not going. I’m sorry. But I can’t let you delude yourself.  
And I can’t delude myself either.

 

There. He would delete the number. He was going to rid himself of Jack – of all Jack’s. Rip him out of this chapter of his life, turn the page and never look back.

He didn’t want a mysterious stranger, someone that he was reachable through the phone, but completely unknown, from his name to his face. He didn’t want someone larger than life, smiles bright and camera ready, a city hero.

He wanted something real. Something tangible. Something – _someone_ – that he could touch, witness in its existence and exult in their love. He wanted to know that what he saw was what he got, and he couldn’t live in limbo any longer.

His phone rang and Bitty nearly threw it across the room. Jack was calling.

Not Jack. Not Jack was calling. He shouldn’t pick up. He should reject the call and never think about what an idiot he had been for the last thousand years.

Falling in love with a catfish.

Mama Bittle would have a heart attack when she heard. If she heard. She was never going to find out if it was the last thing Eric ever did.

The ringing ended and Bitty breathed out a sigh of relief. Maybe he got the message.

_Ping!_

_Ping!_

_Ping!_

_Ping!_

Or not.

 

_3:55 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

What are you talking about?

_3:55 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Are you really not coming?

_3:57 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Why won’t you answer your phone? We should talk.

_3:58 PM  
From: Mr. Zimmermann_

Where are you?  
Please. Eric.

 

Eric deleted the messages. He deleted the number. He was turning closing the book and throwing it away.

He grabbed his bag, turned off the lights in his classroom, locked the door – he stepped into the hallway and ignored the ringing of his phone.

He could do this. Don’t give in.

As he walked down the hall he someone that gave him pause. He sat hunched over his phone on a too small bench just outside the art room, his hair falling over his eyes. It was Jack Zimmermann. Eric thought he had left with the rest of the Falconers.

He could have sworn he saw him leave.

Jack hung up. Eric’s phone stopped ringing. He cursed, then redialed.

Eric’s phone rang again. He pressed ignore and he could faintly hear the sound of his own voice, small and tinny, echoing through Jack’s phone. “You’ve reached the phone of Eric Bittle. Sorry for missing your call, but if you leave a message I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you, and have a great day!”

Eric felt his heart stutter in his chest. How –

Jack looked up, staring right at Eric. “Hey, Eric. It’s me, Jack.”

Jack, Jack. It was Jack. Jack – had his number. He was calling him. He was leaving him a message.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, but I think we should talk. If you’re upset, I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you when I saw you in the gym, that it was me. I thought you knew that it really was me, not – not someone pretending to be me.”

Jack. His Jack was this Jack. He was dating Jack Zimmermann. Eric Bittle was dating Jack Zimmermann.

“Please call me back,” Jack finished, hanging up and standing.

Eric blindly unlocked his phone, pressing the call back button on his recent missed call. Jack’s phone rang.

“Hi,” Eric breathed into the phone as Jack answered.

“Hi,” Jack replied, an echo in the hallway.

Eric’s phone slid away from his ear, resting on his shoulder. Jack stepped forward, ending the call. He was so close; Eric could touch him if he wanted to.

“I’m Jack,” he said, pocketing his phone. “You must be Eric. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

Fake Jack Zimmermann was the real Jack Zimmermann. He was the man who watched too many WWII documentaries, suffered from insomnia, had terrible taste in music, texted like an old man, and actually listened to Eric’s crazy baking stories.

He was the one who didn’t know how to use the internet aside from checking his email. He didn’t have a favorite pie. He told terrible jokes. And he also was the captain of the Providence Falconers and had once modeled in his underwear for Calvin Klein.

Eric sobbed, wrapping his arms around Jack.  

“I thought you knew,” Jack tried, holding Eric close.

Eric shook his head, feeling half ashamed for breaking down and crying onto Jack – this was not how he expected their first meeting to go, though he supposed really, it was their second meeting.

“You’re a horrible idiot and I hate you,” Eric stuttered, stepping back and wiping his eyes. Lord, he must look a mess.

“I know,” Jack said. “You still want to go to Annie’s?”

Eric laughed, shoving Jack playfully. “Mr. Zimmermann, I am not fit to be viewed by strangers,” he scolded.

Jack grinned, shrugging his shoulders. “I think you look perfect to me,” he said.

Eric rolled his eyes, a blush painting his cheeks. “Well lead the way then, Jack. Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WEEPING*


End file.
